Turkey Ranch Road Rage

by Paula Boyd

  “Those signs mean just what they say ‘Trespassers will be shot’. Plain and simple.” She nodded her head for emphasis, the piled high hair not daring to wiggle. “Five of them. And I know he can read because he tried to get me to sign a contract to hand him over my life for little of nothing, the dirty rotten scumbag. He was just asking for it.”

  Choosing to ignore her logic for as long as possible, I did a quick count of the signs and came up with six, not five. One was obviously handmade as it was larger and floppier than the others. Poster board was my guess. No, I did not ask what it said. “How about you give me the Little Lady and I’ll go out and talk to the man hiding behind the car?”

  “That’d be a good idea,” came a squeaky voice. “My name is Damon Saide and I’m here on behalf of the Parks for Progress group. I just came by to explain some things to your mother about my offer. I meant no harm. Can we talk about this?”

  He was awfully darned accommodating, considering he’d been pinned behind his car by flying bullets for ten minutes. Not to mention the fact that the car was probably totaled, Lucille having focused on the front half of the vehicle.

  “Meant no harm my hind foot,” Lucille said, trying to push around me so she could go get more bullets. “Get out of my way, Jolene, that stupid boy’s trying to steal your inheritance.”

  Ah, my inheritance. That was certainly going to get my attention. First of all, I have no doubts whatsoever that my mother will outlive me by at least twenty years. I’m absolutely certain of it, in fact. Secondly, a house such as my mother’s in the thriving metropolis of Kickapoo, Texas, is worth less than your average Suburban—without the full leather package. So, my inheritance wasn’t a real big issue. But, trying to take advantage of my mother was. “Who are you and who sent you? And don’t bother saying Parks for Progress again. I want names. Of people.”

  A bit of reddish hair and then some squinty eyes peaked out from behind the front quarter panel. “I represent a confidential client. I’m not at liberty to divulge names at this time, but I assure you, this is a serious offer and the money is available.”

  “Really? Well, it seems my mother has a nine-millimeter handgun representing her and she’s real serious about it too. How do you figure that’s going to work out for your confidential client? Or you, for that matter?”

  “I told you I needed those clips,” Lucille said, pulling the slide back on the gun and letting it spring forward. “He needs shot. I bet if I shot off his toes one by one he’d start talking.”

  “There’s no call for violence,” Demon Seed squeaked. “We were trying to be accommodating—”

  The wail of a distant siren cut him off.

  “You hear that, Jolene, that’s the sheriff. You’ve yammered so long I lost my chance to shoot the lying rat.” She sounded really disappointed. “I sure wish I’d thought about shooting off his toes earlier. We’d have been long done before now.”

  “Well, there’s always next time,” I added helpfully.

  The siren grew closer, and, knowing how these things went, I figured I ought to be wearing pants when the cavalry arrived. I smiled at my mother and said, “I’ll just go slip on some jeans.”

  “A bra too, Jolene. It’ll probably be Leroy that shows up and God knows he doesn’t need a reason to stare at your chest.”

  I feared she was right on both counts, not that I was going to praise her for it. One sane comment does not erase a dozen bullet holes in a Hyundai. Still, boobs swinging free and loose beneath a tee shirt would get me more of Leroy’s attention than I could stand, so off I scurried to correct the problem.

  It took me less than a minute and a half to get myself properly attired in shorts, tee shirt and required undergarments. When I stepped out on the porch, however, I saw not Leroy, but his father, Deputy Fritz Harper—Mother’s boyfriend. Although, from the way she was shaking her finger at him and screeching at the top of her lungs, I didn’t think they were real sweet on each other at the moment.

  Off to the side and slightly behind Fritz stood a skinny little man, not much taller than I am, with pale skin and reddish blond hair. He was nodding and trying to look very earnest. I’m not one to let others’ opinions influence me—especially not my mother’s—but there was something about him that just didn’t hit me right. Funny, too, he did remind me of a weasel.

  I made my way toward the group. Fritz noticed me first and began waving me over, frantically. He, like many before him, assumed I have some influence with my mother. The man should know better. He does know better, which just meant he was really desperate. I could certainly relate to that.

  “So,” I said, stepping toward Fritz, “what’s the charge?” Attempted murder was my first guess, but I went with door number two. “Assault with a deadly weapon?”

  Fritz shook his head. “Nah, can’t really see that.”

  “Discharging a firearm in the city limits?” This was my mother’s sweetheart, after all.

  Again the negative. “If Miz Jennings across the street wants to press charges for disturbing the peace, I’d have to do that, but she don’t. She only called in because she was worried about Lucille. Said there was a suspicious looking character lurking around the house and it looked like he was trying to get inside.”

  I suppose he had been attempting to knock on the door, but I hadn’t actually witnessed anything before the gunfire started.

  “That’s exactly right. He was sneaking around my house, trying to break in,” Lucille said firmly and with a straight face. “The little weasel scared me half to death. I thought he was some ugly rapist on the loose.”

  Said weasel shifted about from foot to foot, but didn’t act the least bit offended, or concerned about Lucille’s accusations, or more accurately, fabrications.

  I glanced at Fritz. “So what are you going to do?”

  “We’ll figure out what charges ought to be filed once we get back to the station.”

  “Fine,” I said, with not a hint of cheer. I’d known it would come to this. It always comes to this. “Give me a minute to brush my teeth and grab my purse—”

  “Oh, no, Jolene, you don’t have to go,” Fritz said. “I’ll take Mister Saide here on over by myself. Probably all we can really do is charge him with trespassing, but we’ll haul him in to sort things out. I’ll take your statements before we go.”

  Huh? He’s the one going to jail? The guy who was dodging bullets behind his now-ruined car is the one in trouble? While I grappled with my rapidly deteriorating mental state, it somehow occurred to me that it was not time for me to be out of bed, much less dealing with law enforcement officers, or bullets, or my mother. “What time is it any way?”

  “Seven thirty-five,” Damon Saide said helpfully. “I’ve tried to catch her at home later in the day and she’s rarely here. I thought this would be my best opportunity to talk with her.” He smiled amicably, with not a hint that he’d just been hiding behind his car in fear for his life and was now headed to jail. “I brought a new contract for her to look at. I am sure she’ll be pleased with the new terms.”

  “Quit talking about me like I’m not standing right here, hearing every word you say, you little twerp,” Lucille snapped. “And I’ll be pleased when you get yourself off my property. Don’t you set foot out here again either or I can’t be responsible for what might happen to you.”

  I didn’t see that she was shouldering any responsibility for anything now, but maybe I just wasn’t seeing the whole picture. Come to think of it, I didn’t want to see any more of the picture at all. “I’m going back to my room, climb back into bed and hope this was all just a really bad dream.”

  “Oh, no, Jolene, you can’t do that. You need to get your shower right now and get dressed. We’ve got to be at the rally by nine.”

  Chapter

  Six

  No, there had been no previous warning about “the rally” and no, I didn’t know what the rally was even for, although an anti-park demonstration was a fairly good guess.r />
  Lucille hadn’t done much explaining either, only order-giving. I’ll spare you the “are you going to wear ‘that’,” and the “put on some makeup” scenes, but the battle lines were clearly drawn. I wore the shorts and tee shirt anyway. Again she insisted we take her car. She also insisted that I drive so she could concentrate on “other things.” Probably what hell she could inflict on me next and the series of lies she could tell about it. Not that I was jaded or cynical at this point.

  She was still deep in thought as I pulled her Buick off the highway onto Turkey Ranch Road and drove a couple miles down the blacktop.

  The sides of the right-of-way had been recently mowed and the smell of fresh cut grass filtered in through the air conditioner. I could see a group of vehicles ahead and drove toward them. About thirty people and two news van trucks with cameras rolling were clustered at the entrance to the Little Ranch. Rock pillars supporting a big iron archway with “Little Ranch” welded into the top of the frame made a photogenic backdrop.

  “We’re late, Jolene, and you know how I hate to be late,” Lucille said in a frantic, maybe even panicked, huff. “I just cannot stand to be late, and if we’re not fifteen minutes early, we are late!”

  The obligatory “it’s your fault” was plainly inferred and did not need to be stated aloud. My stomach didn’t knot up with childhood angst as I have matured past all that, but I did help myself to two Tums from Mother’s bottle in the seat just to be on the safe side.

  The green digital numbers on the dash glowed eight-fifty. “We aren’t late, Mother, we’re actually about ten minutes early.”

  “Well, obviously we’re not early enough! We should have been here by eight thirty at the latest. Oh, my Lord!” Lucille gasped and pointed through the gate and up the hill.

  The topography in these parts is relatively flat to really flat, but in this one place, there happened to be a plateau-like spot that jutted up above the surrounding prairie. Naturally, the house was built on it. There were even real trees up there around the house and it had the only view, so to speak, for miles. It was a picturesque setting even from here, except for all the police cars with flashing lights.

  “What on earth is going on here?” Lucille said, still not sure what she had been late for.

  The Buick was still rolling to a stop as she vaulted out and raced into the middle of the crowd.

  I found a place to park without blocking the road then made my way back to where my mother had jumped out. It didn’t take but a few seconds—and the guiding light of a TV camera—to locate Lucille Jackson. She was in the middle of an interview with a local news personality. I’m not sure the guy behind the mike understood what was happening to him, but I sure did. My mother was appearing to be a cooperative witness when, in fact, she was actually grilling the reporter for what he knew.

  It wasn’t pretty and I’m sorry that I had to bear witness to it, but I did find out what was going on.

  Bob Little was missing.

  Apparently one of the out of town activists had gone up to talk to him earlier this morning to explain about the rally, ask permission, get his side of the story, that sort of thing, and Little Bob was nowhere to be found. There were, however, definite signs of foul play. Exactly what signs, no one knew, but they were indeed definite, and foul, or so went the rumor.

  Dismissing the reporter, Mother pulled a purple umbrella from her infamous purse and popped it open for some purple shade. She then dug out her glittery gold glasses case and pulled out oversized shades, which were darned close to the color of the umbrella as well as the big purple hoops clipped to her earlobes. Properly outfitted and color-coordinated, she made her way through the growing crowd, trawling for more information. I kept a discreet distance behind her, wishing for my own shade-on-a-stick, purple or otherwise, since it was already hot enough to bake biscuits.

  After a half hour or so, Mother gave up her crusade and headed back toward the car, something I’d wanted to do from the beginning.

  I fished in my pocket for the keys and when I looked up, a flash of reflective light on the road from the house caught my eye. “What’s that?”

  Mother spun around and surveyed the long driveway. “Why, it looks like a car!”

  While I mentally berated myself for my keen vision and big mouth, Mother high-tailed it back through the crowd to the iron gate and planted herself front and center on the right side so she’d be next to the driver’s window as the car came through. I reluctantly followed.

  As the vehicle got closer, there was no doubt it was the sheriff’s vehicle and Jerry was behind the wheel. We exchanged glances, but there was no opportunity for much else as media people swarmed the truck.

  Butting aside seasoned news reporters, Lucille grabbed on to the truck’s door. “Now, Jerry Don Parker, I need to have a word with you. I want to know just exactly what’s going on around here. What makes you think something’s happened to Bob?” Lucille leaned closer to the car window. “And who’s that in there with you? Is that a witness in there with you? Is she the one that saw the foul play? ”

  Lights flashed and reporters shoved microphones toward the open sheriff’s car, the swarm trying to nudge Lucille aside. Mother didn’t budge and Jerry didn’t respond to any of their questions immediately. The gritty glare he sent in my direction, however, spoke volumes as he has been down this road with Lucille before. When he still said nothing, I figured I should get a look at his passenger and foul play witness for future reference. About a year ago I would have assumed that none of this was my concern and I would have kept my nose out of it. I am much wiser now.

  Engaging my journalistic objectivity, I jostled myself away from a pushy cameraman who was filming a reporter giving the short version. I finally heard what she was saying, “Local businessman and rancher Robert John Little is believed to be missing. The Little Ranch is the site of a proposed private camping park that has drawn protests from some local residents. The Bowman County sheriff’s office has been at the home investigating.” The well-dressed woman turned around and shoved the microphone toward the vehicle where Jerry sat. “Can you tell us what you found, Sheriff?”

  I leaned around Mother to get a better look at Jerry.

  I blinked, frowned and then looked again.

  My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

  A barely-out-of-her-teens girl with auburn hair peeked out from beneath a floppy straw hat. She was clearly trying to avoid the cameras, but I still saw her put her finger to her lips in a universal signal to keep my mouth shut.

  I am very certain that I did not keep my mouth shut. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was flopping open and shut like a carp sucking reeds. She didn’t need to worry about me saying anything though. I couldn’t. In fact, I could barely gasp.

  Jerry Don Parker mumbled something to the reporters that amounted to “no comment,” then promptly sped away.

  With my daughter in the passenger seat.

  Chapter

  Seven

  “Now, Jolene, don’t you be getting all upset,” Lucille said, racing along behind me. “Remember what I told you yesterday at the cemetery, about people doing things and needing to hear their explanations before you go jumping to conclusions. You remember that?”

  Oh, I remembered. I’d also just had a refresher in what it feels like to be gutted like a fish too. I was remembering that really well at the moment and I didn’t like it. “I suggest you start explaining,” I said, hurrying toward the car. She didn’t respond immediately, but I knew she was still right behind me. “You’d better start talking, and fast.”

  “Now, Jolene,” Lucille hollered, sprinting along quite deftly behind me. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking,” I said, pulling the car keys out of my pocket as I marched toward the car.

  “Well, with that imagination of yours, and your insecurities and such, well, I suppose you might be thinking there’s something untoward going on with Sarah and Jerry
Don, which of course there isn’t, it is strictly business.”

  I shot her a glare and kept walking. “And exactly what business would that be and how would you know about it?”

  “Well, I guess I don’t exactly know.”

  Oh, she knew. My hands were shaking, but I pointed the clicker at the Buick then opened the car door and hopped in, starting the car in one smooth motion. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, not only to still the shaking but to keep from doing bodily harm to the lying deceitful woman climbing into the car next to me.

  Mother had managed to decompress her umbrella during the sprint and she closed the door and buckled up in record time. She was huffing and puffing a little, probably more out of fear than physical exertion. She was also probably using it to get a little sympathy in hopes it would buy her some time to make up more lies. It wouldn’t.

  There was really only one thing to do, go after them. I knew if I headed south on Turkey Ranch Road, I’d hit the main highway, but I also knew there was a short cut to the county seat and jail. “What’s the quickest way to Bowman City from here?”

  Lucille fidgeted in her seat, and from the corner of my eye I thought I could see beads of sweat on her face. It was not from the heat or the hurrying to the car either. I had no idea what the woman had done, or why she needed Sarah here to help her do it, but I would. Oh, but I would. “Which way?” I repeated.

  “Well, you can take this on out to the cutoff. It runs into the main highway.” She reached up and fiddled with her hair. “I suppose a drive to Bowman City is probably just as good a thing to do as any other, although we were just there yesterday.”

  If my eyes could have indeed nailed her to the wall, they would have, or at least to the Buick’s plush velour seat. “Since my daughter is with the Bowman County Sheriff and that’s where his office is, it seems like that would be the place to go. So either you don’t want me to go there or you know something I don’t. Let’s hear it,” I said through gritted teeth. Now.”